I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf

For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours From My Life.

What I Do And What I Dream Include Thee, As The Wine Must Taste Of Its Own Grapes.

You Smell A Rose Through A Fence: If Two Should Smell It, What Matter?

Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O My Brothers?

"there Is No God," The Foolish Saith, But None, "there Is No Sorrow." And Nature Oft The Cry Of Faith In Bitter Need Will Borrow: Eyes Which The Preacher Could Not School, By Wayside Graves Are Raised; And Lips Say, "god Be Pitiful," Who Ne'er Said, "god Be Praised."